


Like Rain On Sun-soaked Days

by stayingputwouldbeablunder



Series: Sunshine, Sunshine [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, M/M, failed first dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-09 21:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5556608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayingputwouldbeablunder/pseuds/stayingputwouldbeablunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Get your stuff together, okay? I’m taking you home.”</p><p>“But dinner,” Stiles starts to protest. Derek just raises the bag and shakes it. “Do I want to know how you got us food that quickly?”</p><p>Derek shrugs casually, saying “perks of being a bearded, glasses wearing, ridiculously attractive man with an indefinable eye color.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Rain On Sun-soaked Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rohruh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohruh/gifts).



> Remember last year when I wrote _The Sun In Our Eyes_ and mentioned I wanted to write a sequel? Well, I did. I actually wrote and finished this a couple months back with the intention of completing a third fic in this series and posting them together. And while I did start the third fic, I have yet to complete it.
> 
> I also wasn't going to post this until I posted my Sterek Secret Santa fic from this year but I refused to go all of 2015 and not post anything. So be forewarned, this probably needs some serious editing which I will get to next week.
> 
> Anyways, [rohruh](https://rohruh.tumblr.com), here's a short sequel and a promise to eventually finish the third part in this series!

Their first date goes something like this:

Stiles, sleep deprived and running on an adrenaline high from his last final of the quarter, arrives at the Italian restaurant he and Derek agreed to have dinner at twenty minutes early. The day after Stiles had flailed into Derek on the icy sidewalk and brought them both to the ground, they had decided to wait until after break to really start anything. But then, in hour thirty two of not-sleeping-because-finals, Stiles had coaxed Derek into agreeing to meet him for food. Unfortunately, the only night Derek could meet was the night before Stiles and Scott flew out of O’Hare and back home for a month. Derek had offered to wait or maybe just meet for coffee but Stiles insisted and Derek caved fairly quickly.

The waitress seats Stiles at a booth near the back, taking in his frazzled appearance with a grimace. She offers to place his drink order, unsubtly stating that they have espresso, before Stiles shakes his head. He mentions something about how it will screw with his drugs, and yep, he totally deserves the scrutinizing look she gives him then. In an effort to push past that bit of awkward, he hurriedly tells her he is waiting for someone and asks that she direct any bearded, glasses wearing, ridiculously attractive men with indefinable eye colors his way. She laughs, probably under the assumption that by drugs he meant weed instead of Adderall, and agrees.

Stiles takes his phone out to shoot Derek a message about where he’s seated in the restaurant, setting it aside after the text goes through. Then he turns, rifling through his bag to make sure actually did leave the lecture hall with his calculator, notes, and four mechanical pencils instead of his exam. Isaac did that once, left a final with the exam in his hands, and didn’t realize it until he was half way across campus. Luckily for him his professor had found it more hilarious than anything, taken the exam as Isaac hysterically explained that it had been an accident and not so he could cheat, and reassured him that he wasn’t the first student to ever do it. Still, Stiles has not let him live it down. That is probably why Isaac likes Scott more.

After confirming that yes, he did turn his physics exam in and not steal it, Stiles closes the flap of his messenger bag. He shoves it against the wall the booth is against, peeling out of his coat, scarf, other winter wear. By the time he’s comfy, the waitress has returned with his water and a straw, setting them down next to his elbow. Stiles moves them aside, flipping the menu open to scan through the appetizers. He puts his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his palm as he flips through the pages.

The next thing he knows, someone is saying his name softly. There’s pressure against his shoulder, then at his neck, warm and comfortable. Stiles blinks his eyes open slowly, taking in his surroundings and the fact that Derek is bent over the booth, smiling that gentle grin he gave Stiles when he said goodbye in the coffee shop a week ago. The noise of the restaurant filters back in and Stiles jerks, knees hitting the underside of the table.

“Shit,” he rasps, flushing as the other patrons at tables near the booth glance at him with looks varying from curious to appalled. “Derek.”

Derek just sighs, squeezes the back of Stiles’ neck again, and asks “when was the last time you slept?”

“Tuesday.”

“Today is Thursday,” Derek says, concern making his eyebrows furrow. Stiles wants to reach up and smooth them out but his knees are starting to hurt. “Stay here for a minute, okay?”

Stiles nods and starts rubbing at the denim over his knees, wincing. There will be two bruises there in the morning, blotchy and discolored over his patellae. The one, singular plus to cold weather is that he’ll be able to get away with wearing pants all break, otherwise Scott would see them since they share a room while in Beacon Hills and because Scott is Scott, he’d make a comment that he thinks is absolutely hilarious in front of their parents about Stiles doing a lot of work on his knees. Then his father would give him his “I don’t even want to know” stare while Melissa rolls her eyes to the ceiling and silently questions where that part of Scott’s personality came from.

He doesn’t know how long Derek is gone, busy with soothing the bruises that are sure to be forming and trying not to make eye contact with the two women that are in the seat of the next booth over and can see him over the back of the seat connecting their booths. One of them keeps snickering and whispering things to the other, ignoring whatever the guy across the table from them is apparently saying. Stiles’ phone vibrates, rattling the silverware despite the thick tablecloth.

‘ _Do you want me to check you in for our flight?_ ’ pops up on the locked screen, Scott’s name above it. Stiles is about to unlock the phone and reply when Derek appears back at the table with a bag in one hand. The other is shoved in the pocket of his coat. Stiles wants to know how someone can look so fucking dapper in wool.

“Get your stuff together, okay? I’m taking you home.”

“But dinner,” Stiles starts to protest. Derek just raises the bag and shakes it. “Do I want to know how you got us food that quickly?”

Derek shrugs casually, saying “perks of being a bearded, glasses wearing, ridiculously attractive man with an indefinable eye color.”

Stiles whines “oh god” into his hands but starts pulling his coat on nonetheless. Derek offers to take his bag, holding it as Stiles slides out of the booth. He catches the waitress’ eyes who sat him as he swings his bag over his shoulder, nose crinkling at the smirk and thumbs up she gives him in approval. Derek’s hand is against his lower back then, guiding him towards the entrance of the restaurant.

The hostess offers them a monotone “have a nice evening” that Derek returns with a thank you before pushing the door to the restaurant open. Stiles bristles at the whoosh of cold air that hits him as they step out the door; he hates winter. Derek seems to notice this because he frowns.

“I’m guessing you walked here?”

Stiles nods. “I just came from my last final, so yeah.”

“C’mon,” Derek says, tilting his head in the direction opposite campus and Stiles’ house. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

“You drove?”

“I was in Chicago all day and didn’t feel like taking the L.” Derek shrugs and steps forward, hand still against Stiles’ lower back. When Stiles doesn’t follow, he quirks an eyebrow. “Unless you want to walk home?”

“No, I, nevermind. Let’s go.”

A block down, a sleek black Camaro’s lights blink when Derek fishes the keys out of his coat. Stiles’ step stutters because Derek would own a beautiful sports car that has poor snow traction in a city that spends a third of the year in snowy and icy conditions. Aside from that, it’s drool worthy. Stiles slides into the passenger seat, shutting the door quickly as to not let the bitter air in. Derek hands him the bag when he sinks into the driver’s seat and Stiles takes is eagerly, inhaling the scents of basil and garlic and oregano.

“What’d you get us, by the way?” Stiles asks and Derek starts the car, letting it idle so the heating can kick in.

“You I got fettuccine alfredo. Figured that would be safe. There should be garlic bread and a slice of cake in there too.” Derek rubs his hands against the steering wheel, flicking the headlights on with one finger.

“And you?”

“I’ll eat when I get home,” Derek replies, guiding the stick shift into reverse. “Where do you live?”

“Derek, you should-"

“I’ll be fine. You need to eat and then go sleep. The bags underneath your eyes are terrible. Now where do you live?”

Stiles mumbles out his address and directions, sighing as the car turns. Derek cannot be real. People like him only exist in movies and Stiles is fairly sure he hasn’t landed the leading role in a rom-com. 

Ugh.

There’s a voice saying the name of radio station then music is flowing through the car, seventies rock, which makes Stiles snort. Derek’s eyes flick over to him and Stiles would have missed it if not for the streetlights over the intersection. Stiles grins, absently thinking that this is something Derek and his father have in common: appreciation for the types of bands that his parents grew up on. Over the speakers, Pete Townsend sings about a teenage wasteland.

The Camaro eventually comes to a stop in the driveway Stiles, Scott, and Isaac share with their neighbor, the space between the houses so small they don’t really have a choice if they want to avoid parking in the street. Derek shifts the car into park and starts to unbuckle his seatbelt when Stiles reaches a hand out.

“You don’t have to walk me to the door.”

“I don’t want you to fall when you’re this exhausted.”

That makes Stiles pout. “I am not that much of a klutz,” he retorts.

Derek rolls his eyes, pulling the parking break and gripping the door handle. “How are your knees, huh?”

He’s out of the car before Stiles can recover, door shutting as Stiles rushes to unbuckle. Derek opens the passenger’s door for him, holding a hand out. Stiles shoves the bag of food in his direction, slipping his messenger bag on. He then braces himself for the patch of ice he knows is coating the driveway; he watched Scott fall this morning when he was taking out the trash. Derek shuts the door behind him, following after Stiles as he trudges towards the front door.

The light is on and Stiles can hear the television from inside. He pulls his keys from the side pocket of his bag, biting the inside of his cheek when another wave of sleep deprivation starts to kick in. He turns his back to the door, meeting Derek’s eyes. Even in the poor lighting, Derek’s eyes are bright and his expression understanding.

“I’m sorry I ruined our first date,” Stiles apologizes, guiltily dipping his head.

“You’ve just finished your finals, Stiles, it’s fine. Just eat and then get some sleep, alright?”

Derek hands him the bag of food and Stiles curls his fingers into the handle.

“Can I text you over break?” comes out garbled as Stiles asks it, embarrassed and hopeful and probably overeager.

Derek grins, like that, of all things, has made his night. “Of course.”

“And we can try this again when I get back?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Stiles grins. He doesn’t expect Derek to lean forward and kiss his cheek and because of it, he gasps and then flings himself back against the screen door. Inside someone yells “hello?” and Stiles makes an embarrassed noise in his throat. Derek is grinning again.

“You okay?” Stiles nods and Derek steps down off front step. “Have a safe flight tomorrow. And we’ll talk soon, alright?”

“Yeah. Bye, Derek. Thank you, for dinner and for letting me pester you into this and-”

“Go eat,” Derek interrupts. “Thank me by paying for dinner next time. That was the original agreement, wasn’t it? My spleen could rupture at any moment, you know.”

It’s said so playfully that Stiles can’t help but smile. He waves a goodbye and swings the screen door open, unlocking the door to his house. He notices that although the engine of the Camaro turns over, Derek doesn’t start backing out of the driveway until Stiles has stepped inside. He rolls his eyes but it doesn’t stop the fluttering of his heart nor the ridiculous look he must have on his face when Scott finds him in the foyer a minute later.

“Dude, you alright? I thought you were going to dinner with the grad student. Did he stand you up?” Scott, the ever defensive bro that he is, starts to sneer. “I’ll have words with him if he did, Stiles. You don’t deserve that.”

“Slow your roll, Scotty,” Stiles says, shaking the bag of takeout at eye level. “He, Derek, didn’t stand me up. He bought me food and then dropped me here.”

Scott crosses his arms, still looking like he’s ready to go defend Stiles’ honor. “Why?”

“Because I am exhausted and he realized that pretty quickly so he worked some magic, got me food, and brought me home.” 

Stiles holds the food out to Scott who takes it questionably. He sets his bag down on the floor, peeling out of his coat and boots then taking his food back. Scott follows him into the kitchen while he grabs a fork from the drying rack next to the sink and into the family room where Isaac is curled up on the couch in a heap of blankets. Stiles doesn’t bother being quiet about opening the containers because Isaac has been running on about as much sleep as Stiles and when he crashes, he’s dead to the world. From the part of the couch that Isaac has left vacant, catty corner to the big, plush arm chair Stiles favors, Scott makes puppy eyes until Stiles hands over a piece of garlic bread.

When he goes to sleep that night, it’s to the memory of Derek’s lips against his skin.

\- - -

Their second date (which Stiles will argue in the future is their “real first date, Derek, don’t argue with me on this!”) goes something like this:

Stiles arrives at the same Italian place they had their first attempt at the same time as Derek because Derek drove them. The night before, and thankfully a full day after Stiles, Scott, and Isaac - who spent half of his break at the McCall-Stilinski residence - flew in from California, the edges of yet another polar vortex blew through the Chicago metropolitan area, including Evanston. And although Stiles is perfectly capable of walking or driving himself (pending he could borrow Isaac’s beast of an SUV), Derek insisted he pick Stiles up in the Camaro.

They did talk through the break, text message conversations once or twice a week, mostly exchanging holiday greetings, random bits of information, and complaining about waiting for final grades to go up (Stiles) or working on their dissertation (Derek) or the weather (both of them). When Stiles had texted Derek he’d be back four days before classes started and asked if he wanted to try dinner again, Derek’s reply had come within a minute.

So now, attempt two.

By some twist of fate, the host seats them in a booth against the same wall as the one Stiles had been sat at the first time. They don’t have the same waitress but she’s there, bustling from table to table on the opposite side of the restaurant. She catches Stiles’ eyes as their current waitress pours olive oil into a dish with various herbs, lips quirking when she finally recognizes him. Stiles ducks his head when she winks which earns him a concerned look from Derek.

They talk as they wait, picking at pieces of bread and dipping them in the olive oil. Stiles tells Derek about the classes he’ll have this quarter, the ones he’s looking forward to and the ones he isn’t. Derek talks about his graduate program, going into detail over his coursework and dissertation. Stiles may have cheated and done some research over the break about what linguistic anthropology actually entails but watching Derek getting excited about his research, the way he smiles and catches himself when he says something he doesn’t think Stiles will understand without definition? It’s worth it for Stiles to let Derek expound and ramble. When Derek realizes he’s been talking for the past ten minutes without interruption, he scratches at his neck, embarrassed, ears and cheeks turning red. It’s so fucking endearing that Stiles laughs.

Stiles pays for dinner, as agreed upon, rolling his eyes when Derek insists on paying the tip. He acquiesces though; the part-time job at the campus Writing Place only pays so much. Their waitress waves when they leave, Stiles holding a box of leftovers he is ninety percent sure that Scott is going to pilfer in the night. Derek holds the door to the restaurant open for him, grinning when Stiles makes an offended noise at the fact it is snowing again.

It’s easy, so easy, to get into Derek’s car like he has a thousand times before, poking at buttons on the radio until he finds something that he likes. Derek doesn’t even complain, just backs out of the parking space and into the slow moving traffic. The city always perks up when classes start, as evident by the increase of cars and out of state drivers who can’t handle snow. Sometimes Stiles wishes he had Roscoe, the old CJ5 that got him through high school and is sitting dormant once again back in Beacon Hills. Logically he knows it would have probably died the first winter in Evanston but that doesn’t make him miss it less.

Derek breaks him from his thoughts, asking what his plans are for the weekend without looking away from the road. Stiles thinks he can see the slightest hint of tenseness in his shoulders and smiles.

“Nothing,” he says, even though it won’t be true once classes start. “Why?”

“There’s an exhibit at the Field Museum that I want to check out and if you’re free, I thought maybe you’d like to go?”

“What’s the exhibit on?”

“Ancient Greece.”

Stiles mulls over his answer as Derek pulls onto the street he lives on. High school Stiles would have scoffed at the idea of spending a Saturday at a museum. Stiles from last year would have scoffed at the idea of spending a Saturday at a museum. But Stiles finds himself nodding when Derek prompts him again with a “Would you be interested?”

“Yeah, sure dude. I’ve never actually been there before. Scott and Isaac go once or twice a year but I’ve never tagged along.”

And just like that, Stiles secures another date, judging by the way the skin around Derek’s eyes crinkles as he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I inadvertently named this fic with the word _sun_ in the title without realizing it until I had to come up with a name for the third fic and the series. The title comes from [_Got To My Head_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0usSQHLMaXw) by WATERS. I would definitely suggest checking them out if you've never heard of them.
> 
> Have a happy new year everyone!
> 
> And as always, I'm on [tumblr](https://stayingputwouldbeablunder.tumblr.com), currently emotional over Oscar Isaac.


End file.
